Читать книгу The Sultan's Harem Bride - Annie West - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

HIS HAREM?

Jacqui’s mouth sagged.

No wonder he’d looked familiar. Yet, in the photos she’d seen of Sultan Asim of Jazeer, his head had been covered.

Jacqui took in the thick, black hair that complemented the burnished bronze of his skin and threatened to flop over his brow. The media had dubbed him one of the world’s most eligible bachelors. He had wealth, power and charisma. If the public ever saw him like this, bare-headed and slightly tousled in a way that amplified the potent sexuality of his strong, autocratic features, women would mob him wherever he went.

Though according to Imran plenty of women had already thrown themselves at His Royal Highness.

Imran.

Jacqui pressed a hand to her swooping stomach.

‘You should sit.’ It wasn’t a suggestion but an order, cracking through the tension in the room.

Jacqui pushed back her shoulders and opened her mouth to tell him she was fine.

‘The dream was disturbing. You shouldn’t exert yourself yet.’

‘You know about that?’

‘Why do you think I’m here?’ His lofty expression made a joke of her fear he might be a sexual predator. What would a man like Sultan Asim want with a woman as plain as Jacqui Fletcher?

Awkwardly, the long coverlet almost tripping her, she subsided on the bed. Silly, how weak her knees felt. But the dream had been so real.

‘Are you all right?’ He’d moved from the door but kept his distance. Clearly he had no desire to get close.

Grimly Jacqui acknowledged she wasn’t in the same league as the sort of women rich, sexy potentates entertained. Nature had skimped on her curves, for a start. Was that why she accepted so easily that his interest wasn’t personal?

‘I’ll be fine soon,’ she lied. Experience told her it would take far longer to shake the miasma of that dream. She tugged the covering close.

‘Do you get them often?’

Her head snapped up. What did he see as he scrutinised her so closely? Terror? Grief? Guilt?

Instinct urged her to protect her privacy. ‘Occasionally.’

‘You should see someone about them.’

‘You seem awfully interested in my sleeping habits.’

Was that a flush of colour across his cheekbones or a trick of the multi-coloured light?

Jacqui tensed and rubbed her forehead; a headache was beginning. Nerves and stress made her snap at the man who had the power to make or break this venture.

How could she? Everything rode on the Sultan’s goodwill.

She wished she could blame her stupidity on being disorientated after the nightmare. Yet Jacqui had an awful suspicion her reaction to the Sultan himself was to blame. He was just...too big, too masculine, too close, though he stood metres away. It was as if the spacious room had shrunk and couldn’t accommodate the two of them.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured huskily. ‘I apologise.’

‘No need. I understand.’ His voice was a deep burr that worked its way under her skin and turned her insides to mush. ‘The circumstances are...unusual. I should apologise for breaching your privacy. Finding a stranger so close on waking must be disconcerting.’

No mention of her nudity, or his hands on her body.

Yet she had trouble thinking of anything else.

She should be relieved he clearly didn’t want to be in her bedroom. What she’d thought was a gleam of sexual interest in those hooded eyes was nothing of the kind.

Yet for some reason tension still eddied between them.

‘Now we’ve got the apologies out of the way...’ he paused, as if waiting to be sure they had ‘...you can answer my question.’

‘Your question?’ Jacqui felt like a parrot, repeating the word, but her foggy brain was a mess of impressions. Imran. The barely familiar room. The shock of meeting the Sultan. The curious ripple of reaction deep inside when those dark eyes rested on her.

He folded his arms and Jacqui was momentarily distracted as the movement moulded his long robe to a body that was even larger and more powerful than she’d imagined.

‘Exactly who are you?’

* * *

Amber. Her eyes were a luminous shade of amber. A warm, enticing shade that made him think of sunrise over the desert, or the peachy reflection of late-afternoon light in the pool at his favourite oasis.

Asim had been stunned by that glowing brightness when she’d looked up at him. Those wide-spaced, slightly slanted eyes gave her an intriguing feline look.

He found himself staring.

Better staring at her eyes than her naked flesh, his conscience taunted. He was the lion of Jazeer, ruler, law-giver and leader. He did not ogle defenceless women.

Yet the image of her lithe, streamlined body had lodged in some unrepentant part of his brain and he couldn’t shift it.

She hunched her bare shoulders and he realised he was scowling.

‘I’m Jacqui Fletcher.’ She sat straighter, meeting his eyes directly, as few in his kingdom did. His pulse pounded as their gazes meshed. That was unprecedented.

Asim waited but she appeared to be pausing for his response. Was he supposed to know her? Something about the name rang a bell but he was sure they’d never met.

She understood his language, had responded in it, though she’d switched to English once she’d become aware of her nudity. Presumably shock had made her revert to her mother tongue.

‘How do you come to be here?’ His security staff had questions to answer. This section of the palace was well beyond the public audience rooms.

‘I was invited.’ Her head tipped up, though her gaze slid from his. Instantly he sensed she withheld something.

‘Indeed?’

She flushed and Asim watched, fascinated, as colour washed her cheekbones and throat. With her tousled, tawny hair around her shoulders, flushed skin and flimsy covering, she looked alluring yet strangely innocent.

Damn! He needed to focus.

‘I don’t recall issuing any invitation.’

Again that lift of the chin, baring her slender throat. Did she realise how sexually provocative she looked with all that cream and rose flesh on display and her cover slipping low over her pert breasts?

‘It was from the Lady Rania.’

‘My grandmother?’ What was the old schemer up to now, inviting strange women into the palace? Not just into the palace but deep into the long abandoned heart of it that hadn’t been modernised in a century.

Asim sensed intrigue. He had an instinct for it, given the poisonous environment in which he’d grown up.

‘Strange she didn’t mention this invitation to me.’

A shrug drew his attention back to those bare shoulders, milk-white above the embroidered silk. A dart of heat jabbed low but Asim ignored it. He had more important issues to deal with than sexual awareness.

‘Really? I wouldn’t know.’

He told himself the husky, nervous voice proved she hid something. But his wayward body was too busy responding to the eroticism of that rough velvet tone.

Asim stood straighter, infuriated by his inability to focus. His day had turned to disaster because of one unwanted female. His night was rapidly going the same way. He fast lost patience.

‘Why are you here, Ms Jacqui Fletcher?’ A thread of memory tugged in his brain. He knew that name. ‘You should be in a guest apartment near my grandmother.’

Something was going on behind his back and he didn’t like it. He should have known when the old lady had been so uncharacteristically quiet this last week. His beloved grandmother was many things—opinionated, capable and clever—but never meek. He’d begun to worry she was unwell, that age and grief had finally caught up with her. He should have known better.

‘I’m here to research a book. I’m a writer.’

Asim frowned. ‘A writer?’

In a blast of realisation, it came to him. He knew where he’d heard of her. He froze, every nerve and sinew stiffening. Incredulity widened his eyes.

‘Not Jacqui, but Jacqueline Fletcher. Am I right?’ He watched her gulp and knew he wasn’t mistaken. ‘And not a writer, a journalist. Isn’t that so?’

Anger spurted in his veins. What was the old woman thinking, bringing a journalist into their midst? Bad enough at any time but now? Sheer lunacy! They had too much to lose.

And this wasn’t just any journalist. Anger turned to white-hot fury. She’d been there the day Imran died.

Asim drew in a searing breath, forcing back grief. His cousin had been on assignment with this woman. They’d headed out together for an interview. But only one had returned.

* * *

Jacqui clutched the fabric tighter at her chest. The silk kept slipping through her damp palms.

She’d planned to be fully dressed if she met the Sultan. She bit her lip, suppressing an insane urge to giggle. There was nothing remotely funny about this.

Sultan Asim had the power to scupper her project before it got off the ground. How could she convince him of her case, dressed in a bedspread and dazed from her nightmare? He’d never take her seriously.

Instinctively she rose, locking wobbly knees as she pushed the hair from her eyes.

‘My by-line is always Jacqui Fletcher.’

‘But you were identified as Jacqueline in the official reports.’ Accusation rang in his tone and she flinched.

Jacqui knew the reports that he meant. Police reports, diplomatic reports, hospital and media updates. It was amazing the paperwork caused when two foreign news reporters got caught up in a supposed terrorist blast, even if it was in a distant African nation. She swallowed. It felt like broken glass lined her throat, scraping her raw.

‘That’s my given name but I never use it.’

‘No.’ His face turned to granite. ‘I understand you prefer to be called Jack.’

Imran. Her fragile composure cracked. Imran must have mentioned that to his cousin.

‘It’s a nickname my colleagues use. Used.’ She drew a shaky breath that didn’t fill her lungs.

‘You were my cousin’s partner.’ It was a statement, not a question, yet Jacqui had the impression he probed. Did he think them lovers? His gaze scoured so intently she felt it abrade her skin.

Remorse filled her. Here she was in Imran’s childhood home, meeting his family, while he...

‘We were colleagues, and friends.’ He’d been the nearest she’d had to a best friend. Her throat closed on a searing ball of emotion.

No wonder she’d thought this man familiar. He and Imran shared that superior nose and striking good looks. But, where Imran’s eyes had danced with mischief, Jacqui couldn’t imagine the Sultan laughing. His brand of handsome was harder than his cousin’s. Those features looked like they’d been sculpted into proud, spare elegance by the desert winds.

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ Her voice was hoarse. She’d written to Imran’s family after he’d died but today was the first time she’d met any of them.

‘Thank you.’ He inclined his head in a gesture that was at once courtly yet distancing.

As if he didn’t want her sympathy. He disapproved of her.

The knot of guilt in her stomach twisted tighter. She couldn’t blame him. It was her fault Imran had died. If she hadn’t dragged him to what had clearly been a set-up, he’d still be alive.

And she’d still be a journalist.

Brittle ice crackled in her veins and she hugged the bedding tighter. She desperately needed to be alone. But the man before her looked as immoveable as this massive ancient citadel.

Obviously her state of undress didn’t faze him. She wished she could say the same. She was used to men, spent most of her time with them, but always fully clothed as one of the guys. Now she felt hyper-aware of her femininity and her nakedness.

‘My grandmother invited you here to research a book?’ Disbelief dripped from every syllable and his sable eyebrows shot up.

‘She did.’ Jacqui scrabbled for poise. How she wished she wore her charcoal trouser suit, or even the wrinkled cargo pants and long sleeved T-shirt she’d travelled in. Something familiar that would boost her confidence in the face of his imperious disbelief.

Once she’d have taken it in her stride, a challenge to be overcome to reach the next professional goal. But that certainty had been blown apart the day the bomb had exploded. She felt battered and unsure of herself. It wasn’t just the trauma of the dream and waking to his disturbing presence. These past months had taken a terrible toll, not only on her career, but her confidence.

She wasn’t the woman she’d been.

The realisation stiffened her spine. Hadn’t she determined to drag herself out of the dark void of despair and fear? Hadn’t she promised she’d make a success of this?

After all, it was all she had left.

She had to succeed.

‘The Lady Rania was very supportive, and hospitable,’ she added with deliberate emphasis, ignoring the whisper of her conscience that he had a right to resent her presence. ‘She personally invited me to stay here—’ her gesture took in the muted beauty of the ancient room ‘—in the heart of the old palace.’ Jacqui forced a smile, as if she couldn’t read the Sultan’s disbelief. ‘I’m most grateful to her.’

His expression grew more brooding.

‘Clearly you can’t remain.’

Jacqui’s smile died. ‘But I—’

He gestured in a slashing motion that signified no argument would be brooked. ‘This is no place for a guest.’

Jacqui put her palm to her chest where her heart crashed into her ribs. For a moment she thought he’d meant to evict her from the royal residence. That would have been disastrous, the end of all her hopes and plans.

Relief eased the rapid beat of her heart.

‘I’m perfectly comfortable, truly.’ After some of the places she’d bunked down, this was luxurious, despite the lack of modern facilities.

Again his brows rose. Yet it was true. Besides, the tranquillity here soothed after the bustle of the capital. Even now, months after the explosion, Jacqui was edgy and uncomfortable with crowds or sudden noise.

‘Nevertheless, it’s not appropriate.’ He looked as if he’d swallowed something sour. It hit her that he might be talking about more than the lack of amenities. Did he think she was going to filch the silver? His stare was disapproving.

Strange how that hurt, though she should have expected it. He clearly blamed her for what had happened to Imran.

But the Sultan’s grandmother had been so supportive and kind, first via correspondence and then today in person, that Jacqui had believed she’d be accepted here. She’d let herself believe that in completing the project she and Imran had discussed she could somehow atone for what had happened. Was that even possible?

‘I’ll have someone move you to another room.’ He inclined his head and turned away.

Jacqui’s old spirit surfaced. Being dismissed had always rankled.

‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Your Highness.’ She grimaced. It was too late for royal protocol—the man had already seen her naked and screaming her lungs out—yet surely it couldn’t hurt. ‘Truly, there’s no need. I’m just so grateful to the Lady Rania for allowing me such access.’

He stopped in his tracks, his neck and shoulders stiffening. Was he so unused to anyone speaking up once he’d dismissed them?

Imran hadn’t talked of his cousin much, apart from occasional references to his focus on duty and royal responsibilities. The man had none of Imran’s laughing charm. She guessed he was too self-important to bother charming anyone.

Slowly he turned. His face was impassive, but those night-dark eyes glittered sharply. Jacqui sucked in a breath and fumbled for a better hold on her covering as her fingers momentarily slackened.

Silently she cursed her misfortune in being caught at anything but her professional best. But regret couldn’t distract her from the way her body sizzled under his scrutiny. As if he was seeing her naked again.

As if she wanted him to!

Abruptly she looked away, stunned. What was happening to her? She didn’t react like this to any man. She closed her eyes momentarily, wishing she could wake and find this was all just an extension of her nightmare.

‘As you say, Lady Rania is very generous.’ He paused as if to let that sink in. ‘And I’m sure you’ll find a guest suite more than adequate.’

‘But...’ Jacqui bit the inside of her cheek in rising frustration. Words were her trade. Why couldn’t she summon the right ones now she needed them? Had she lost that too, along with her nerve and her best friend?

‘Your Highness, it’s the private part of the palace I want to research. Not the public function-rooms.’ She dredged up what she hoped was a winning smile and forced herself to meet his eyes. ‘I’m writing about the women of the palace and their lives here.’

Obviously she’d lost her touch. Far from being persuaded, Sultan Asim’s face turned stony. His lips thinned, his nostrils flared and his hand slid to a jewel-encrusted scabbard she hadn’t noticed at his side.

Instinctively Jacqui stepped back as the man in the flowing robes transformed from autocrat to warrior in the blink of an eye. He looked dangerous and magnificent. As if he was on a raid into enemy territory.

Except he looked at her as if she was the enemy.

Her nape prickled and her breathing shallowed. Instinct told her to run. Her heart hammered.

Surely that curved knife was for show? Sultan Asim was renowned for diplomacy and leadership, not violence. Nevertheless she crept a little further away.

‘You intend to write about the women of the palace? And my grandmother agreed?’ His voice was a bass rumble that made her skin ripple.

Jacqui planted her feet, refusing to back up again. ‘She not only agreed, she was enthusiastic.’

What was his problem? He hadn’t looked this menacing even when they’d spoken of Imran. This was about something else.

‘I find that difficult to believe.’ He shook his head, folding his arms across his wide chest. The light of battle disappeared from his eyes, replaced by condescension as he looked down that sexy, arrogant nose of his.

‘I assure you, Your Highness, I’m not in the habit of lying.’ Anger took her across the room till she stood only an arm’s length away. He might be lord of all he surveyed but that didn’t give him the right to call her a liar.

She breathed deep then regretted it as she inhaled the hot, enticing scent of his skin. It infuriated her that she noticed it. She fixed her gaze on his face and ignored the predatory glint she saw there. This time, instead of frightening her, it spurred her on.

‘When I told your grandmother I wanted to write about the traditions of the harem, she was enthusiastic. That way of life has disappeared and I want to document it.’

‘You want to write about women from the past?’

‘That’s what I said.’ Jacqui frowned. ‘The women of the palace and their lives here. Or perhaps you think women’s stories aren’t important?’ The challenge slid out before she could stop it. She was on a roll, too keyed up to pull back, though she knew she should.

Maybe because living dangerously was far more appealing than the dark nothingness she’d inhabited these past months.

Tonight, for the first time in ages, she felt blood pump in her veins. She felt alive.

‘History is about more than wars and politics and who runs the country. What happens on a domestic level is important too.’

‘Yet you made your name chasing stories about wars and politics and who run countries across the globe.’

Jacqui blinked, rocked by the fact he knew about her career. And by the reminder of all she’d lost.

‘I’m interested in a lot of things. My background in news journalism doesn’t mean I can’t branch into something different.’

At least she hoped it didn’t. Nerves made her stomach clench and her palms dampen.

She didn’t know yet if she had what it took to make this dream a reality. But it was the only dream left to her. She’d cling to it with both hands. She owed it to her friend and to herself.

The Sultan surveyed her silently, as if she were a curiosity. Because no one ever stood up to him? She was pretty sure royal protocol didn’t allow for contradicting the sovereign.

Jacqui drew a shaky breath and prayed she hadn’t blown her one chance. She couldn’t fail before she’d even started.

‘Your grandmother is one of the few people who remember such a life here. She’s a valuable resource and it would be criminal not to record what she remembers. This is part of Jazeer’s culture and history.’

‘You’re very passionate about this.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with being passionate about what you do.’

Unless it leads you and your friends into danger.

Unless it destroys lives.

Memory was a sucker-punch to the belly. Her shoulders hunched, the pain almost doubling her over. Here she was, arguing trifles when Imran would never again feel the sun on his face or see his family. Because she had led him into danger. Maybe it was only just that she’d lost her career, her old life, as a result. Maybe she deserved to.

A firm hand closed around her upper arm, holding her steady.

‘Slow breaths.’

Jacqui closed her eyes and nodded, focusing on breathing out through the pain.

The heat of his big frame radiated against her, counteracting the chill deep in her bones. The reassurance of his grip seeped strength into limbs that had turned limp.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘You’ll feel better if you sit.’

Jacqui opened her eyes as he led her to the bed. She almost sighed out loud with relief as she sank onto it. Immediately he withdrew his hand.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘You’re very kind.’

‘You shouldn’t exert yourself. You were distressed earlier and that took a toll.’

Dully, she nodded. ‘I’m...’ She shook her head.

What could she say? I’m a mess right now might be the truth but she had just enough pride left not to blurt that out. Though after the last half-hour baring herself to this man physically and emotionally she didn’t have much dignity left.

‘What’s so funny?’

Jacqui lifted her face to find him a mere step away, a frown marking that broad, handsome brow.

She bit down a half-hysterical laugh.

‘Just myself.’

If she didn’t laugh she’d curl up in a ball and sob. She’d probably blown her chance to work on this wonderful project. It had shone like a beacon, dragging her out of the inertia of despair and fear.

‘Can you dress yourself?’

Jacqui blinked. Was he offering to do it for her? Her over-tired brain boggled.

‘Of course.’

‘Good. Be dressed and ready to move in ten minutes.’ Having given the order, he spun on his heel and strode out of the room, only pausing to be sure the door snicked shut behind him.